


The Beach

by knockoutmouse



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV)
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Headcanon: Henchperson of Indeterminate Gender is autistic, Henchperson is called Rory, Kissing, Nonbinary Character, Other, Touch-Starved, Transphobia, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-16
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2019-06-11 06:45:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15309717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knockoutmouse/pseuds/knockoutmouse
Summary: Fernald accompanies Rory to their childhood home on the beach. Sort of melancholy fluff, if that's a thing that can exist?They hang out on the beach, drink wine, and talk about bad dates they've been on.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WickedCinnamonRoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedCinnamonRoll/gifts).



> Not sure if this fits what you wanted? I hope it's okay!

“Is this it?” Fernald asked as Rory turned the ancient automobile into a driveway overgrown with weeds.

Rory nodded silently, turned off the ignition, and got out, slowly approaching the weathered gray house. 

Fernald followed, hanging back a bit, unsure of what to say. He didn’t know how Rory felt about the place, whether this journey was one of reminiscence or past trauma.

Rory rummaged in their purse—teal, adorned with a gaudy sequined peacock—and took out a set of keys. They unlocked the door and ventured inside the house. Fernald waited a few moments before he went after them. 

The interior of the house was in better condition than the outside, though it was obvious that it hadn’t been lived in for a while. The house was small but well-kept, or had been at one time. In the living room, sun-faded curtains hung in front of French doors opening out onto the beach, and several bookshelves lined the walls, still filled with books, their pages now warped by time and the sea air. A kerosene lamp rested on a table in the corner, its frosted glass shade painted with a floral design. 

Fernald set off down the hallway and found Rory in one of the bedrooms, staring out the window, absently toying with the hem of the white cotton curtain. They turned when Fernald entered the room, but he couldn’t read their expression. 

“Your room?” he asked.

Rory nodded. Fernald looked around. More bookshelves; a canopy bed, its frame draped in lavender tulle; stuffed animals and satin pillows scattered over the bed; a writing table near the door, a kind of finality in the blankness of its empty surface, as if it had been cleared off for the very last time. 

“You’re very quiet,” said Fernald. 

“Sorry,” said Rory. “I was just—thinking. Remembering.”

Fernald hesitated, but decided to ask anyway. “Are they good memories or bad memories?”

Rory shrugged. “Mostly good, I guess. I mean, my mothers were pretty cool about most things.”

“Were?” repeated Fernald. 

“Still are, probably. I haven’t seen them for a few years,” they explained. “Let’s go outside.”

The two of them went back through the living room, out through the French doors, and down the beach until they stood near the water’s edge, watching the waves break on the shore under the overcast evening sky. 

“Why did they leave?” asked Fernald. “Your parents, I mean.”

“They started a nonprofit when my little sister was in college,” said Rory, starting to walk along the beach, “which is how they met the Duchess of New York, and now the three of them are in a poly relationship and travel around building schools and libraries.” 

The two of them walked along in silence for a moment as Fernald processed that information.

“Did you spend a lot of time out here? On the beach?” he asked.

“Yeah. I was just—lonely a lot,” said Rory, a hint of melancholy creeping into their voice. “Um. It’s kind of embarrassing, but I didn’t, you know, have friends. And my sister and I were never close—I mean, we didn’t fight or anything, we just never had much in common. So I’d go for walks out here a lot, especially at night, and just think about things.”

“Like what?” asked Fernald, gazing out for a moment into the darkening sky. Thunder rumbled overhead. “The vastness of the ocean? The number of stars in the universe? The meaning of our existence?”

“Well, yeah, sometimes,” said Rory. “But mostly about how I hoped someday, I’d have someone to come back here with.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRUNK WINE

The two of them watched the waves spilling onto the sand, dissolving into foam. Fernald tried to collect his thoughts.

“Thank you for letting me come with you,” he said.

“It’s not like I had anyone else to bring,” said Rory flatly. At Fernald’s hurt look, they said hastily, “No, wait, not how that sounded. Um. Let me rephrase.” 

They closed their eyes, considered a moment, then tried, “That sounded like I was saying I only asked you because I didn’t have any other options. That’s not what I meant. I meant there isn’t anyone besides you that I would have even considered asking to come here.” Rory looked down, toying with the fringe of their scarf. “I’m sorry. I’m bad with words sometimes, and let’s be real, I know my voice doesn’t help. Please don’t be mad?”

Fernald looked up quickly. “Hey, don’t worry. I’m not mad.” He reached out to touch Rory’s arm, then arrested the motion. He’d seen them shy away from being touched by others before, and even if they hadn’t, his hooks weren’t exactly comforting. He went on, “You’re right, though, that is what I thought you meant. Thank you for clearing up the misunderstanding.”

Rory brightened. “Yeah?”

Fernald nodded. “And it means a lot that you wanted me here. Now how about some trunk wine?” he added hastily, afraid that he would begin blushing.

“Trunk wine sounds amazing right now,” agreed Rory. 

The two of them returned to the car, and Rory retrieved a bottle of red wine, a corkscrew, and a blanket. 

“Do you want to go sit by the water?” they asked. 

Fernald couldn’t tell whether he was imagining it, or if there really was a hint of shyness in their voice. “Whatever you want,” he said.

This appeared to be the wrong answer.

“We don’t have to,” said Rory earnestly. “If you want, we can stay here, or in the house, or—” They broke off uncertainly.

“I like your idea,” said Fernald, and then, more firmly, in case Rory still had any doubts, “The beach sounds great.”

They made their way back down to the water. Nightfall had fully arrived now, the half-moon a clear, glowing white over the dark ocean. 

Rory spread out the blanket on the sand, and they both sat. Fernald felt an unfamiliar sense of excitement rising in his chest. He told himself it was silly, they were just two coworkers—no, friends—hanging out, nothing more. Then again, Rory had asked him out of all people to accompany them here. 

Even if that’s all it was, the atmosphere was definitely getting to him. The wine, the moonlight, the ocean—Fernald had never done anything like this before.

Rory spoke, drawing Fernald back into the present moment. 

“I forgot to bring cups.”

“What?” Fernald had heard, but for a moment, the words didn’t register.

“Cups. There’s probably some in the house, though. I’ll go check.” Rory started to stand.

“Hey, wait,” said Fernald. “I don’t mind sharing a bottle if you don’t.”

“Oh. Sure.” Rory settled back onto the blanket, took a drink of wine, and passed the bottle to Fernald. He carefully took it in both hooks, took a drink, and passed it back. 

“What are you thinking about?” Fernald asked, then inwardly cursed himself for how trite it sounded. If Rory felt the same way about the question, though, they didn’t show it. 

“The moon always looks so close from here,” they said. “Sometimes I used to wish I could go live there and just be by myself. I guess that’s pretty stupid, isn’t it?”

“It’s not stupid,” said Fernald, “although maybe a little contradictory, wanting to go live on the moon by yourself, if you didn’t like being alone.”

Rory gave a half-smile and took another drink of wine. “I didn’t say it made sense. It just looks like it would be peaceful there.”

“If you ask me,” said Fernald, “it’s pretty peaceful here right now.”

“That’s true,” said Rory. 

This time, when they handed Fernald the bottle of wine, their hand lingered, resting on his hook.

“Got it?”

“Yes.”

As Rory let go, their fingers brushed over Fernald’s wrist, and his heart leapt in his chest.


	3. Chapter 3

The two continued to talk and drink as the moon rose in the sky, and after a while, Fernald found that he’d gradually moved closer to Rory on the blanket. 

Rory seemed to have relaxed considerably. They were smiling more than usual, too, and Fernald suspected it might have something to do with the wine.

“I’ve never seen you get drunk before,” he said. Oh dear. That wasn’t a polite thing to say. Maybe he was a touch affected by drink as well.

“I’m not _drunk_ ,” said Rory, giggling. “Just a little tipsy.”

“I might be, too,” confessed Fernald. 

“Good.”

“Why is that good?” he asked.

Rory shrugged. “It’s good to relax once in a while. You get kind of intense about work sometimes.”

“Sorry.”

“I didn’t mean it as a bad thing,” said Rory. “But it’s nice to see you, like, just be chill for once.”

“What do you mean, for once?” protested Fernald. “I’m totally chill.” 

Rory burst out laughing. “No, you’re not. Oh my God. You’re like the least chill person ever.”

“Ever?” Fernald raised his eyebrows.

“Okay, no, that would be Olaf,” admitted Rory. 

“But he drinks all the time.” 

Rory considered. “Yeah, good point. Maybe the wine isn’t, like, the deciding factor here.”

“Atmosphere,” said Fernald vaguely, waving a hook to indicate the general vicinity. Yes, okay, he was definitely a tiny bit drunk. But at least he hadn’t said _it’s you_ , which was what he’d been thinking. 

The two of them sat in silence for a time, watching the moonlight on the waves. The already small space between them narrowed further.

Rory turned over the empty wine bottle in their hands. “What do you do for fun, anyway?”

“Fun?” repeated Fernald, as if it were an unfamiliar concept.

“Yeah, you know…read books? Play football? Go on dates?”

Fernald laughed. 

“Why’s that funny?” asked Rory.

“Are you serious? I mean,” Fernald gave a wry smile, “I don’t exactly have people lining up to go out with me.” He hesitated, unsure whether it would make things weird to add his next thought, and then decided to go for it. “To be honest, this is probably the closest to a ‘date’ that I’ve been on in a long time.”

“Really?” Rory suddenly became very interested in twisting their scarf through their fingers. “Is that...um…good or bad?”

It was hard to tell in the dark, but could it be that they were blushing?

“I would say good,” said Fernald. “Definitely better than the last actual date I went on.”

“What happened?” asked Rory. 

“He went to the restroom five minutes in, and never came back. I kind of gave up on dating after that.”

“Wow, that…totally sucks,” said Rory, turning to face him with an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

Fernald shrugged. “It happens.”

Rory nodded. “Yeah. One time my sister tried to set me up with a friend of hers, but when she introduced us, things didn’t really work out.”

“Why not?”

Rory bit their lip and looked out over the water before answering. “Well…she took one look at me, turned to my sister, and said _Tell it I’m not interested_.”

“What a terrible person,” said Fernald. He touched Rory on the arm. “You know what, she didn’t deserve you anyway. Nobody should talk to you like that.”

“It was a long time ago,” said Rory. Then, cautiously, they added, “Maybe we should hang out like this more often.”

“I would like that,” said Fernald. 

Rory leaned over to rest their head against Fernald’s shoulder. “Me too.”

Fernald swore his heart stopped for a second, but then he remembered to breathe, and inclined his head to let his cheek rest against their tantalizingly silky hair.

Rory sighed.

Fernald took a chance and kissed them on the forehead. Rory gave a soft sound of satisfaction, so heartrendingly appreciative and _real_ that Fernald didn’t hesitate to take them into his arms at once. Then Rory was kissing him, their hand caressing his face with a tenderness he’d never experienced before. 

He tightened his arms around Rory, drawing them in closer, stroking their back, and realized they were trembling. Fernald stopped, letting go of them.

“Are you okay? Do you not like that?”

“No, no, I do,” they said breathlessly, “it’s just—it’s been so long since anyone has touched me like that.”

“Oh,” said Fernald. “I always thought, you know, you didn’t really like being touched.”

“I don’t, mostly,” said Rory. “But it’s okay with some people. I know that isn’t really logical,” they added quickly, “but I guess that’s just how my brain works. I mean, I can see how it’s sort of self-defeating. But please don’t stop.”

“Here, give me a second,” said Fernald. He removed his prosthetics, then placed a tentative wrist on Rory’s shoulder. “Is this all right?”

Rory nodded. Fernald leaned in and kissed them again. Slowly, gently, Fernald rubbed light circles over their back, stroked their hair, the back of their neck. Fernald was so focused on giving Rory the touch they needed that it took him a moment to realize they were doing the same things to him. 

“So good,” he murmured, before kissing them again. “I could keep doing this forever.”

“I appreciate the sentiment,” said Rory, “but that seems somewhat impractical.”

“I didn’t mean literally forever,” said Fernald. “Just figuratively. You don’t have a romantic mind.” 

“Not at all,” agreed Rory, “and I’ll probably keep saying things like that, unless you kiss me some more.”

So Fernald did.


End file.
